“What did you do last night?” Gray asked.
“Proofread the final proofs,” Kaitlyn lied. Reviewing the final proofs was what she should have done, but what she had actually done was pour a large glass of wine and write a scathing review of Rathskeller for her website. She’d then had a second glass of wine and shared the link to it on New Canton’s social media pages. She had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well with Gray, who had likely spent the previous evening getting rid of one headache and wouldn’t appreciate another.
“Good,” Gray said, rolling his neck. “Now the real work begins.”
They spent the next week cleaning out the old Baratellis restaurant. The building had only been empty for a few months, but Kaitlyn suspected the previous owners had never kept it sparkling clean. The layers of grime and grease they were scrubbing through had to have been accumulating for years.
“No wonder this dump closed,” she said disgustedly when she started working behind the bar. “How does an ice chest get dirty?”
“It’s worse than I realized,” Grayson admitted. “I’ve hired some help, but they don’t start until tomorrow.”
Kaitlyn raised her head to look at him over the countertop. “Can we afford that?”
He nodded. “We got a last-minute investor. We’ll be able to afford a lot of things now.”
“Who?” Kait asked with interest that turned immediately to suspicion when her brother hesitated. “Gray,” she said warningly. “It had better not be who I think it is.”
If forced to really think about why he had invested, Landon would have come up with a three-fold answer. First, he’d done it because Gray was his oldest friend—and he did still think of him as a friend even after all that had happened. Second, he’d done it because if the dead really could roll over in their grave, this move would have his father’s corpse doing backflips. And third, he’d done it to irritate the shit out of Kaitlyn LeClark.
He was still thinking idly of Kaitlyn when his phone rang, and an unexpected name came up on the Caller ID. Tom Kavanaugh—Rathskeller’s bar manager. The only other time Tom had called him was when there had been a kitchen fire.
“What’s wrong, Tom?” Landon asked by way of greeting.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. James,” Tom said. “But we might have a situation with Rathskeller.”
“What’s that?”
“Remember how I told you that business has dropped over the last week?”
“Right,” Landon said impatiently. “And I told you that fluctuation is normal.”
“Absolutely,” Tom agreed. “But these summer months are when we do our best business, and as you know, when you factor in BOH and FOH costs, spoilage, overhead—”
“I know how a restaurant’s finances work,” Landon interrupted smoothly. “But those expenses are hardly a recent problem, are they?”
“No, but when your net revenue is typically around 8-10% and business drops 5%, that makes it a bigger problem.”
Landon frowned. “Is this something that marketing should be looped in on?”
“Maybe. First, we need to talk about what I think is causing the drop.”
Do your worst, Landon had silently encouraged her. She certainly had. Landon’s jaw tightened as he read the scathing review of Rathskeller that had ended up on New Canton’s social media pages. It was cleverly written—he couldn’t deny that. She’d skewered the decor, the service, and the food with dagger-sharp wit. And near the end, she’d included his flippant comment about not knowing what was good on the menu.
As far as I can tell, she wrote in conclusion, the answer is: nothing.
Crumpling up the printout his assistant had been kind enough to put on his desk, Landon drove halfway to the condo before remembering they’d switched. He made a hard U-turn and was parked in front of the first floor apartment unit in record time. It was 10 pm, too late for a social call, but he rapped sharply on the door anyway.
He was about to knock again when the door swung open and Kaitlyn LeClark frowned at him from the doorway. She must have just gotten home from the restaurant because her hair was still in a messy topknot and she was wearing old cut-off shorts with trail-like grease stains from where she’d wiped her fingers throughout the day. The neck of the thin cotton shirt she wore was damp, like she’d just splashed water on her face, but she’d missed a gray smudge near her temples.
Still beautiful, Landon noted, and somehow the realization only sharpened his irritation.
“Gray doesn’t live here anymore,” she said acidly. “He’s at the condo you own, probably sleeping because we’ve been working at the restaurant you partly own all day.”
“I’m not here to see Gray.” Despite the clear lack of invitation, he walked in, and her hand was still gripping the handle when he pushed the door behind him.
“Listen, Landon,” she said evenly, tilting her head back to look up at him and willing herself not to step back from him. “You might own everything else in this town, but I checked. These apartments aren’t part of the James’ portfolio.”
“That’s because these apartments are shitholes,” he said, taking in the cramped space with one dismissive glance. “My bathroom is nicer than this place.”
“I’m sure that’s true, and if I were in your bathroom, you’d have a right to barge in. But since we’re in my apartment, you don’t.” Kaitlyn put her balled fists on her hips to keep from trying to physically manhandle him out the door. “What do you want anyway?”
He looked down at her. Being a pain in the ass didn’t make her any less beautiful. His gaze skimmed her lips and then lower. “I want to talk about your libelous little review of Rathskeller.”
Kaitlyn crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at him. “Libelous? That review was generous.” To
